


The King's summons

by Serena90



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bearer, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, M/M, Mpreg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Triggers, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 05:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serena90/pseuds/Serena90
Summary: Robert Baratheon is told of Jon Snow's true parents. Ned Stark tries to persuade him that Jon is more Lyanna's son than Rhaegar's. It doesn't work or it works too well.





	The King's summons

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a explicit rape. It is disturbing and if it may trigger you, I recommend not reading it.

He had been surprised to be summoned by the king so late at night. Mayhaps his old friend wanted a drinking partner? Robert should know better, as Hand of the King Ned had too much work to indulge tonight. He was accompanied by the red cloaks and was even more surprised to be directed to the throne room. As they approached the throne room, Ned felt cold.

Robert Baratheon was sitting on the Iron Thrones raging, Ned had seen the famous Baratheon fury yet its intensity had never been directed at him. Robert and he had argued in their childhood and during the Rebellion, but there was anger and there was fury. His knuckles were bruised, he had already vented at least partially.

Lord Stark looked around the throne room, filled with the curious court that kept their silence. He wondered whether on his father’s and his brother’s murder, the throne room had been as silent. He remembered the red capes covering children’s bodies.

“Why have I been summoned, your Grace?”, he inquired, keeping his face impassive.

He suspected why he was here. He didn’t know how Robert would have discovered the truth after so many years. However, it was the only thing that could explain his best friend’s furious expression.

“Lord Stark, you are accused of harbouring a dragonspawn in your home”, spat out the King.

There was a pause of silence. After so many years of hiding to every single person in his life, being confronted with the truth was shocking despite his suspicions. He almost denied it, such was his reflex. Yet, he knew as he watched Robert’s face, denial would be worse.

“Jon Snow, known as my bastard, resides in Winterfell, your Grace”, he replied quietly.

The gossip in the gallery erupted. Ned kept his grey eyes on his friend’s face.

“Treason!” roared the King standing up from the throne, “Treason against me for Targaryen _scum_! Dragonspawn! You will hand him over Ned! You will give him to the crown!”

The King wanted to kill his nephew, who Ned had raised as his own son. If he refused, the Starks and the Baratheons would go to war despite their past friendship. Robert had his two daughters and him in this very castle, invaluable hostages, and would have the unconditional support of the Lannisters and the Stormlands. Whilst Robb would face a divided North and Riverlands. Eddard Stark was a good strategist, had won the Rebellion, he knew when a battle or a war was lost.

“Lyanna asked me to protect him”, argued the Northern Lord.

“ _Lies_! Lyanna wouldn’t protect the rapespawn!”, denied King Robert fiercely.

But Lord Stark knew how to save Jon, he felt bile rise up his throat at the thought. It was better than death, he told himself and even his worst fears might not come true. He tried to convince himself as he watched the friend he could barely recognize bellow his anger.

The king paused to breathe deeply, his face a deep red that told tales of his excessive eating and drinking. Where had his friend, built like a demon, gone?

Ned took the opportunity to speak, “He looks like Lyanna. She saw his long face, his grey eyes and his dark curls and told me it was her son and no one else’s… He’s a bearer, Robert. Marry him to one of your loyal supporters, but do not kill Lyanna’s legacy”

Bearers were rare and sought after. The only marriage between two men approved by the Faith of the Seven was between a man and a bearer. Having a bearer to marry off was an excellent resource for Houses. For a man who liked his own gender, would seek the opportunity to marry someone he could actually be attracted to ardently and fiercely.

“My love, what does it matter if the boy looks like the Starks? It is treason”, voiced Queen Cersei from beside the Iron Throne.

“Silence!” ordered the King glaring at his Lannister wife with the rancour of fourteen years of marriage.

The Queen raised her chin defiantly and didn’t respond only because her visiting aunt Genna placed a careful hand on her arm.

“Summon him to Kingslanding and we will see if your words are lies”, commanded the King sitting down on the throne, “Meanwhile you and your daughters will remain our guests. As you are no longer the Hand of the King, you don’t have the right to have a household in the Red Keep as such your household will return to the North”

Robert might have become lazy and uncaring, he had never been stupid conceded Ned.

“As you wish, your Grace”, agreed Lord Stark.

 

Robb Stark sat in the Great Hall, holding audiences as had become his custom on three mornings a week. He was currently listening to a shepherd complain on how the wolves in the Wolfswood had killed three of his sheep this week and another two on the past week. There was a disruption as a tall man dressed in Southern fashion erupted into the Great Hall.

“Lord Robb Stark, I, Ser Barrian Penrose as ambassador of Kingslanding, bring a message from the King”, announced arrogantly the newcomer.

The redhead narrowed his eyes at the impolite intrusion of his ruling but urged the Southerner to hand him the message. His eyes widened as he read the letter demanding that the “dragonspawn” Jon Snow appear in Kingslanding escorted by Ser Penrose immediately.

“What foolishness is this? Dragonspawn?” demanded the current Lord of Winterfell angrily.

“Your father, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, has admitted that Jon Snow is not his bastard but his sister’s son by the rapist Rhaegar Targaryen. I have a letter from him, asking to send your brother with me as well”, replied confidently the tall dark-haired man.

“Give it then”, commanded impatiently the sixteen-year-old.

Robb read the letter from his Father, read it again and read it a third time as though expecting the words on the page to change. Finally, he slowly folded it and commanded the people who waited for an audience to leave until tomorrow. Then he ordered a guard to bring his bastard brother to the Great Hall.

Jon Snow came into the room. Before his bleedings, which marked him as bearer, he would have worn similar clothing to his brother. After his first moonblood when he was twelve, he wore Northern dresses making sure they were simple as to not outshine his trueborn sisters, but elegant enough not to shame House Stark.

The fifteen-teen-year-old bastard was a comely bearer. As Lord Eddard had said, he had the colouring of the Starks with dark curls that cascaded almost to his waist, porcelain skin and big grey eyes framed by thick lashes. He had a long face but it suited him with his high cheekbones and sensual mouth. Ser Penrose and the two guards that had escorted him into the hall openly appreciated the view. The bearer did have a face worthy of going to war for.

“Jon”, sighed Robb Stark, his tone softer and kinder, “there are news from Kingslanding”

“Already? We just received news that Father arrived safely”, inquired the young bearer surprised, then he saw the Southern retinue and his expression grew concerned, “Has something happened?”

“Father… Father has confessed to the King that you are not his bastard son, but Aunt Lyanna’s”, stated Robb gently.

There was confusion on Jon Snow’s lovely face, “What are you speaking of, Robb? I can’t be Aunt Lyanna’s son.” he must have done the math in his head, for his voice trembled then, “That- that’s impossible. Father is my father”

Robb Stark walked to his cousin and put on a comforting hand on his arm, “Jon, you must go to Kingslanding, the King and Father summon you. I am sure Father will then explain everything”

“But Robb-”, started protesting Jon, “This doesn’t make sense, why would-?”

“Jon”, interrupted the sixteen-year-old Heir, “you must obey Father. Prepare your baggage, tomorrow you will depart with Ser Penrose to White Harbour and from there to Kingslanding”

The young bearer seemed disturbed still and looked at the tall Ser Penrose and his Southern retinue, “Robb, they are all men- I can’t go with all men, you know that. It’s- it’s important for my reputation and House Stark’s reputation”

If Ser Penrose were less chivalrous, he would have pointed out to the lovely bearer that being Rhaegar Targaryen’s son had irremediably damaged his reputation and that of House Stark’s. It wasn’t like the poor bearer would have many prospects now. If King Robert was satisfied with his Stark features, he would surely be married to a loyal rebel and it wouldn’t be a matter of reputation.

As it was, Ser Penrose gallantly allowed the clearly still perturbed bearer to leave to pack after Robb Stark assured him that a woman, Alys, would accompany him as well. And then made use of House Stark’s hospitality for the night before embarking again to Kingslanding. It was exhausting travel, but his House was loyal to the Baratheons and he was pleased to trusted with this important and personal mission for the King.

He did become fond of the sweet bearer on the trip. Although he had departed Winterfell with red eyes and black eye bags from crying all night, Jon Snow did his best to be kind and courteous to the Southern retinue of Ser Penrose and his twelve Stormlander knights. He hoped that the King would be merciful in the face of such a gentle beauty and would grant his hand to a loyal rebel. And wouldn’t he, the second son of Lord Penrose of Parchments in the Stormlands, be a good option?

 

Finally, after a six weeks’ wait for the King, Jon Snow had arrived to Kingslanding. The court was excited to see the bastard son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark. There were bets made on whether the child would truly look like a Stark and spare Lord Eddard Stark’s life. They were also interested in seeing King Robert’s reaction. There was also curiosity on the child’s beauty, for few of them had seen Lyanna Stark and fewer remembered her face. The poets had vaulted her beauty and now they wanted to see if it had been inherited by her son.

Jon Snow had been led to the Red Keep by his escort Ser Barrian Penrose and given just an hour to make himself presentable to the King and his court after almost four weeks of travel. By then he knew that his chances depended on looking like his mother thanks to the gossip of the Southern retinue that had escorted him. Alys had been ten when his Aunt Lyanna died and assured him the resemblance was clear.

In the mere hour they had, Alys bathed him and styled his hair down with two crisscrossing braids like his mother and put him in a grey dress. The young bearer hoped it would be enough as he looked into the mirror for he didn’t particularly see the kinship with the cold statue in the crypt.

His entire life, Jon Snow had believed himself to be the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He had been the stain in his impeccable honour. And then, he was told he was the son of his Aunt Lyanna and a rapespawn. And now only his affinity to his mother, who he had never known, may save his and his Father’s life. His heart was beating wildly against his chest and he tried to look serene instead of terrified.

“You are a beauty, Jon, the King will surely be merciful”, whispered to him Ser Penrose as he escorted him to the courtroom.

The throne room was imposing, it was the biggest room he had ever been in and its sides were full of people dressed elegantly and extravagantly. The famous Iron Throne was taller than his wildest expectations, there must be surely at least two thousand swords to make such a tall throne of swords. On top of the throne was the King.

On the King’s visit to Winterfell, his father had sent him away to House Cerwyn with the excuse that the court accompanying the King would be rowdy and he didn’t want them to take any liberties with his bastard bearer son. It was now the first time Jon saw the King. Robb had commented he had been incredibly tall and even more incredibly fat. He was definitely a giant, with a generous black mane and thick beard, and bright blue eyes that were unblinkingly trained on Jon.

“Your Grace”, stated respectfully the young bearer as he tried to curtsy gracefully, he reminded himself to breathe.

“Approach bearer, I can barely see you from there”, chastised the King sternly.

Slowly Jon Snow approached the thrones, until he was only a couple of steps away from the Iron Throne. He had lowered his gaze demurely, and so was alarmed when the King raised his chin, not having seen him descend from the throne.

The King’s hand was big, if the dark-haired giant struck him with that hand, he knew the man could easily shatter his cheekbone. He hadn’t been struck since he stopped training in the courtyard. And the thought of such violence was surprisingly quite intimidating for someone who had routinely trained with sword for nine years.

“Yes, you are a Northern beauty”, breathed out King Robert, “those are your mother’s eyes and her long face”

The bearer blushed at the intensity of the King’s eyes on him. Did the King truly still love his mother so? It was a romantic idea that his mother was so special than even after sixteen years of her kidnapping, her betrothed would love her so.

The thumb of the King stroked his cheek, “That is the soft, pale skin of the North”

“Your mother had wavy hair, not curls like you but it is the same shade”, said King Robert as he pulled one of his curls gently.

Jon Snow was paralysed, since his flowering, only women were allowed to touch him so casually. Yet he couldn’t deny the King, he had to please the King to be allowed to live. He remembered Ser Penrose’s words, if King Robert was pleased with him, he would marry him off to a loyal rebel and spare his Father. The alternative was death for him and his Father.

“Those cheekbones and that mouth aren’t Lyanna’s”, the King’s became dark as his thumb caressed his lips, “And that swan neck is Targaryen”

The young bearer trembled as the Targaryen traits were pointed out. He hoped the hateful Baratheon wouldn’t wrap one of his hands on his Targaryen neck and strangle him right then and there. He looked to the side aisle, trying to find his Father in the crowd yet he didn’t have time to find him as the King dropped his chin stepping away from him.

“I can see why Lyanna would say her blood triumphed over _his_ ”, said the dark-haired giant as he spat out with disgust the word ‘his’, “And why she would claim you”

With abated breath, Jon Snow waited for the King to condemn him or marry him off. The King seemed to change his mood quickly and he didn’t know what the Baratheon would do. He swallowed thickly.

“You may return to your guest chambers”, stated the King coldly.

The young bearer wanted to ask to see his Father and sisters, now Uncle and cousins, yet knew better than to actually ask. So, he curtsied again, so low his knees almost touched the floor and let Ser Penrose escort him out of the courtroom.

“Do you think it went well, Ser Penrose?” he inquired eagerly as he was guided to his chambers.

The tall Stormlander grimaced although he tried to hide his expression, “Worry not, you shall not be killed”

 

“Jon Snow, you must accompany me”, ordered a Kingsguard, the bearer didn’t know which.

The young bastard blinked as he pulled his robe tighter to his body, “Where? I must dress first”

“Nay, you must come immediately”, replied sternly the Kingsguard, “The King summons you”

Jon glanced at the window, it was dark. He had gone to bed early but at the earliest it was midnight. Would the King kill him now with no witnesses? He bit his lower lip. It wasn’t like he could disobey the King.

“Very well”, he agreed still too sleepy from being woken up by the knocks on his door after an exhausting day.

He followed the Kingsguard in his slippers and dressed only in his camisole and his robe (thankfully both reach his ankles). To his mounting fear they didn’t encounter anyone on their walk. It took them over ten minutes of fast walking to reach a chamber. The Kingsguard knocked and the King bellowed to come in.

Jon Snow walked inside. First, he felt confusion for it was a bedchamber, why would the King summon him to a bedchamber? Afterwards, he saw the King. The dark-haired giant was lounging in a chair. He was dressed in his bed clothes. His thick belly stuck out of his shirt and his pants were unlaced although they didn’t expose his anatomy. A fear rose inside of the bearer, his sisters’ Septa had spoken to him after his flowering of what some men would expect of a bastard.

He tried to deny what he was deducing, “Your Grace?”

“Come here, Jon”, commanded the King putting down the gold goblet of wine he was drinking from.

Cautiously, he approached the temperamental Baratheon. And gave a squeal as the King pulled him onto his lap. The King was fat, yet he remained a giant, much taller than his Father or Uncle Ben, probably as tall as Greatjon Umber. His hand could almost wrap around his waist on its own. The King was the size of four Jons, maybe five. He was set on one of his thighs, thankfully he wasn’t touching the King’s member, and the heavy hand remained on his waist.

The young bearer didn’t know what to do. Most of the common instructions didn’t apply here, even if he screamed, who would aid him? And despite being out of shape the King was more than capable of subduing him. And what would happen if he screamed or managed to run? His family was still at the King’s hands and he couldn’t very well escape into Kingslanding wearing his shift and his robe with thin slippers. He reminded himself to breathe.

“I have seen a few bearers in my time. Didn’t really appreciate them that much. Some were beautiful, but not quite as beautiful as you. You have Lyanna’s beauty”, the King snorted and added bitterly, “And I suppose the Targaryens’ beauty. That _scum_ at least were pretty most of the time even if they looked like girls. Appropriate for a bearer”

The King stopped to drink deeply from the gold goblet, finishing the wine. Jon tried to think to anything to say that would stop what he feared was going to happen. While at the same time, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t going to happen and that he was paranoid. The King dropped the heavy goblet on the table.

“Take your hair out of that braid”, ordered the King.

Hesitantly, Jon obeyed for it was a harmless order, wasn’t it? He slowly undid his braid, trying to buy time, as though the dark-haired giant would be deterred by that. But untying a braid didn’t take much time despite how the fifteen-year-old bearer tried.

The King smiled, it wasn’t a smile that calmed Jon’s nerves, and pulled on a curl as he had in the throne room, “You do have silky hair, it is wavier after braiding it rather than your curls”

“Thank you, your Grace”, replied timidly Jon.

He could have explained that his hair was curlier after just washing it and that before braiding it he brushed it and that broke off a lot of the curls. That was why it looked wavier now. But he found he couldn’t say a word. There was a weight on his sternum. He thought it might be dread.

The dark-haired giant took his right hand out of his hair and dropped it onto Jon’s slipper on his left foot, he pulled it onto the floor. It fell with a soft ‘plop’. The bearer’s stomach sunk.

“You are as soft as Lyanna, did you know that?”, the dark-haired giant inquired as his right hand possessively caressed his ankle and rose to his calves.

Jon didn’t reply. He didn’t think the King wanted to reply to him anyway. He looked at the hand that was underneath his robe and his gown caressing his leg and slowly going upwards. He didn’t know how to stop it. If he said “stop”, would the King kill him for his rejection? He let out a tremulous breath as the hand reached his knee.

“Did- did you do this with Lyanna?” he stuttered out, trying to distract the King from his exploration.

King Robert snorted, “Your mother was my betrothed and Ned’s sister. I was a true knight with her. And then _Rhaegar fucking Targaryen_ _took what was_ _mine_ ”

The bearer trembled. The King’s voice was bitter. And he knew that the King would not be dissuaded no matter if he begged or pleaded or appealed to his mother’s memory. The giant paw was stroking his thigh now. He closed his teary eyes, trying not to cry.

“I did kiss her, though. Do you think your lips are as sweet as your mother’s?”, questioned the enormous man as his left hand put pressure on Jon’s waist to lean forward.

Even though he knew it was futile, the bearer tried, “Please- your Grace, don’t”

“Hush, you’ll like it, sweet thing”, replied the King uncaringly as his left hand rose to cover head and tilted his head upwards.

The King tasted strongly of wine. He put too much force into the kiss, forcing Jon to open his mouth to his exploration and bruising his lips. The hand on the back of his head was also insistent and he couldn’t move backwards. A couple of tears slid down the bearer’s comely face. After an eternity, the King pulled back.

“Now was that your first kiss?” asked the dark-haired Baratheon with a smile as he thumbed off the couple of tears.

“Yes-yes, your Grace”, stammered Jon.

The King’s smile broadened, “Worry not, sweet thing, I’ll make you feel good”

Jon squealed as the enormous hand firmly grabbed his member and started to stroke confidently, “Your Grace- please-”

“Hush”, said the King before ravaging his mouth again.

The young bearer put his hand on the thick wrist, yet it was for nothing as he could not stop the movement. The King was unrelenting, his hand stroked Jon until against his will. He squirmed trying to evade the hand. It was all for nothing, he melted with soft whine. He felt weightless and numb at the same time.

“There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it, sweet thing?” said the King as he dried off his hand with the table cloth.

Jon closed his teary eyes. And opened them again alarmed, for the King had stood up and was effortlessly carrying him to the bed. He bit his lower lip and tried to think of something else. After all he had melted in the King’s arms even if he hadn’t wanted to, the King could now do whatever he wished with him, for he had given him pleasure. He tried not to think of what was going to happen, on how he could fall with a bastard child.

He was deposited on the bed carefully. The King took of his other thin slipper and then opened his robe and tore his shift easily. Jon closed his eyes harder as he was exposed. He whimpered.

“There, there, sweet thing”, said the King.

Absurdly, Jon could only think that the King spoke to him as Jon would speak to a spooked horse. But then, he wasn’t worth much more than a horse to the King, was he? He tried not to focus on the sounds of the King casting off his pants and climbing onto the bed with him. It was hard for his closed eyes increased his hearing.

He could feel the King hovering on top of him, his thick belly brushing against him. And then the King’s lips were on his neck and he knew he would be bruised. Would the King parade him around court like that? Like a tramp?

One hand was cupping his right nipple as one would a woman’s breast. And then, that hand started to circle his nipple persistently. The situation wasn’t arousing for the bearer, but his nipple tensed. The King left his neck to mouth his left nipple. Trying to match, thought Jon and contained hysterical laughter at the thought.

The other hand left his right nipple and descended. The bearer tried not to tense and obediently spread his legs as the hand strongly tugged for the second time. That would be another bruise. Then the hand found his intimate place. The place only his husband was supposed to ever touch. The bearer whimpered and some tears escaped their prison.

The King hushed him calmly as one of his fingers entered that secret space. It hurt. With his _melting_ before he was slick, but this was an untouched place and it was tight and the King’s fingers were too big. It seemed the King had only wanted to see the place was virginal for he withdrew his finger and started positioning himself.

Sharp terror invaded Jon, if a thick finger had hurt so much, how much would the King’s member hurt? He tried to move away weakly, he wasn’t really focused, and one of the big hands grabbed his hip. That would bruise, thought hysterically the bearer.

Then there was pain. Jon was sure he was being torn apart. And then the King withdrew and went inside again. Jon was openly crying then and whimpering with each thrust. The King lazily hushed him and stroked his hair.

“Such a sweet thing, it will stop hurting soon, sweetling”, grunted the King as he continued to tear him apart.

Was Jon bleeding? He felt like he must be bleeding. When there was such a pain, there must be bleeding. He whined at a particular forceful thrust. He could feel that the King was kissing his neck again, on the opposite side, but it didn’t matter because what was happening down there was too painful.

The King must have pushed inside his secret place for what must have been two dozen times, before he started to pick up the pace and finally stopped with a deep thrust. Jon opened his grey eyes, his _mother’s_ eyes, and looked to the wall of the chamber. He could feel the seed filling him. Would he give birth to a black-haired babe in nine months?

The King’s breathing was heavy. Then slowly, the King slid out from inside Jon. The King sighed and stood up, walking to somewhere inside the chamber. There were the sounds of water. A basin, thought Jon. The dark-haired giant must be cleaning himself.

Then the King steps approached the bed again. Jon felt like he should curl up in a ball, but what would that help? He was too exhausted and numb and pained to move so. The King lifted Jon and grabbed the sheet underneath him. Then, the King rubbed the sheet against Jon’s thighs and Jon’s entrance before he casted it aside. The sheet must be bloody. Proof of his virtue. His past virtue.

The King laid Jon again on the bed. He went to the basin and with a wet cloth cleaned Jon again. Then, the King laid on the bed besides Jon and tugged the bearer to his side. Jon closed his eyes again and tried not to cry too loudly as the King hushed him and stroked his back.

 


End file.
